


Not My Brother

by SCFox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:58:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFox/pseuds/SCFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for S3! </p><p>Harriet, the overlooked screw up of a Watson, is approached by the brother of her own sibling's partner, and dragged into chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR S3

It was a Friday night in Battersea and Harriet had been working until late in her office. It was gone nine in the evening before she came home. She yawned as she walked up the stairs to her apartment, and unlocked the door half-asleep. As she dumped her bag and put her keys in the bowls, she suddenly froze, aware all of a sudden that she wasn’t alone. She spun around and turned the lights on, wishing like hell her gun was by her front door and not in her bedroom.

“Good evening, Ms Watson.”

The woman nervously flexed her fists, ignoring the slight tremor in them, and her pale blue eyes flashed darkly. Sitting in her flat, perched comfortably on her sofa, was a tall balding man, leaning on a black umbrella. She relaxed ever so slightly, vaguely recognising him, but if what she had heard about him was true, just what was he doing in her home?

“Good evening brother’s boyfriend’s brother.” She folded her arms, waiting for an explanation.

The man pulled an unamused face and stood up, “Please. Mycroft will suffice.”

“Right then, and I suppose Mr Suffice will be wanting a cup of tea? I’m afraid I don’t do the whiskey anymore.” They both knew she was lying.

Without letting him answer, and ignoring the indignant expression on the intruder’s face, she walked passed him and into the kitchen. Breaking in to the home of Harriet Watson and waiting for her in the dark was not a way to get on her good side. Especially when she had just come back from a very long day at the office. Mycroft was already noting the similarities between her and her bespoke brother. There was the line of the jaw, the dark blonde hair, though Harriet’s was massively curly and unruly, and the curt way in which they let their feelings known.

As he heard water being poured into the kettle, Mycroft took the time to make the most of his environment, in the dark it had been a little more peculiar. The whole flat seemed to have blue details, a lot was dark blue, so clearly she was a repressed hypocrite, for one. Newer things like the cushions and pattern on the curtains were lighter, more azure,  so she was at least trying to be more relaxed and calm. Her suit was pressed and tidy, so she maintained a good outward appearance, but the shake in her hand was a clear sign of an addict. She turned to face him and handed him a mug. It seemed as though she deliberately let him look at her features, which he supposed was not impossible. She clearly knew who he was. The mug she gave him was pristine, whereas her own was faded and chipped.

“Got everything you need to know then, Mr Holmes?”

“Yes. For now.”

“And am I as troubled and pathetic as you hoped?”

The bluntness of the question caused the very proper and polite Mycroft some embarrassment, though he didn’t show it. She had already adopted the role of ease and comfort in her own home, completely disregarding the discomfort of her home invader. She already knew the answer.

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“Then we’re on the same chapter. What brings you to my humble abode then? Your brother giving you a headache? Mine giving yours one? Am I meant to be fearing for my life at this point? Has a terrorist infiltrated my local café?”

Despite her flippancy and condescension, there was something about Harriet Watson that Mycroft quite liked. She was honest, and she was clearly intelligent. She wasn’t humdrum in the slightest, and there was the unifying factor that they both had troublesome younger brothers. He momentarily thought back to his brother’s comment about goldfish, and the fact that it sprung to mind when he had been deducing Harriet quite surprised him. He had no interest in romance. But perhaps the 'friend' thing could be given a go.

“Nothing quite so interesting, I’m afraid. I assume you’re aware of what happened a few months ago? Regarding our siblings…”

Harriet’s lips drew into a grim line and a frown flickered across her face. The two companions each looked away for a moment, lost in thought.  Obviously she knew exactly what he meant. She had barely known the woman and it still pained her to think of it, and what John must be going through.

“I’m familiar. The love of my brother’s life high tailed it for her life, with his child, after some nasty business regarding a complete and utter arsehole.”

Mycroft allowed himself a slight smile at her description of Magnussen. “Quite.”

“I never realised how dreadful things had gotten, until John turned up on my doorstep, drunk.” Harriet sighed and shook her head, looking down.

“I’ve known Sherlock his entire life and I’ve never seen him react like that,” agreed Mycroft. “But I suppose, that’s what I’m here about.” Harriet motioned to him to go on, “I imagine you feel, as I do, some responsibility for the care of our brothers, yes?”  the woman nodded, “I know Sherlock may scoff at that, but as the older sibling, as much as he irritates me and causes so many problems, I do actually care about him. And I’m worried.” He paused for a minute, swallowing, he didn’t like to admit the fact. “He’s distracted. He hasn’t solved a case since then.  The crimes are piling up. When he has nothing to occupy him...”

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“I need you to help me get them motivated again.”

“ _Me?!_ ” Harry almost spat out her tea, “I’m assume you know I ditched my brother thirty years ago and he hasn’t forgiven me for the utter mess I made of things?”

“That’s not quite true. He came to your doorstep, didn’t he?”

“After three decades. Besides, what on earth can I do?”

“I have something that will help them get going again. But I need you to look after it.”

Whatever Harry expected to happen next, was not the actual sequence of events. She was quite calmly sipping at her tea with her uninvited guest, when he stood up and set his empty mug on the table, walking towards the door of one of Harriet’s spare bedrooms. He knocked on it and waited for a moment. “ _Good grief,”_ thought Harriet, “ _His brother isn’t hiding in there is he?”_ It definitely wasn’t Sherlock. She couldn’t quite believe her eyes when the door opened, and out stepped a woman with short-blonde hair, a huge bump, and an embarrassed smile.

“Mary?!”


	2. Two

“Hi, sis,” Mary gave a slight wave.

Her mug was more than just chipped by the time Harriet had come to her senses. She blinked uncomprehendingly for a moment, until Mycroft cleared his throat and caused her to jump. Her voice was wheezy with shock as she spoke, “Aren’t you supposed to be… _not_  here?”

Mary shrugged, “I’m meant to be nowhere near. But...I couldn’t be that far from John. Plus, it’s a bit hard to be discreet with… _this_.” She vaguely gestured at her belly.

The cogs in Harriet’s head suddenly whirled into life. “So why aren’t you with him?”

Mary  shrugged helplessly, “I don’t think I’d be that well received…coming back, after what happened to Molly.”

Harriet suddenly turned to face Mycroft, “Wait. Are you saying? …Is  _this_  what you want me to look after?!” she vaguely pointed in Mary’s direction.

“In a manner of speaking. Yes.” Mycroft leaned on his umbrella. “You asked me a moment ago if I found you troubled and pathetic. The answer to the first one is a most emphatic affirmative, I’m afraid. But you knew that. However, the second one does not appear in my deductions. You have your gun. So look after them. Just don’t tell the boys she’s here. As long as they know Mrs Watson is at least safe, we can work on bringing Miss Hooper’s killer to justice.”

With that final statement, Mycroft gave a polite bow to his sometime host, and swept out of the door, leaving the two women with just each other’s company. Harry still had no idea what she was supposed to do. She hadn’t lived with anybody since Clara, and though they were still friendly, she didn’t think she had the capacity to let anybody get that close to her again, yet her sister-in-law and her baby were now irrevocably at close quarters in her life.

“Look, Harry,” began Mary, “I’m really sorry to just spring all of this on you...it was Mycroft’s idea. But you’re all I’ve got.”

The last comment made Harry’s stomach lurch at the weight of responsibility she had just been given. She inspected Mary’s honest, genuine face, and scanned her eyes down to the protrusion that one day would be her niece or nephew, and she felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. 

“You must be hungry,” stated Harry after a pause, “Chinese?”

Mary broke out in to a broad grin and she practically bounced up and down as she dragged Harry into a hug. Startled, Harry gently patted her back as her cheeks coloured. As she walked away towards the phone, she murmured to herself under her breath, but Mary heard her anyway.

“Please God don’t let me screw it up again.”

===

It was a melancholy air in Baker Street. It was completely silent save for the occasional pottering of Mrs Hudson. Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa in his dressing gown with his eyes closed and his fingers resting on his lips. John was in his chair, staring at the fire with a cup of tea in his hand that had long since stopped steaming. He still had his and Mary’s place, but he didn’t like to be there on his own, and if Sherlock was honest with himself, he didn’t much like being on his own either. The various newspaper clippings and business cards Mrs Hudson had collected for them lay unread on the mantelpiece.

A clock ticked somewhere in the room, and neither of them really moved, too lost in their own thoughts.  There was ring at the door followed by footsteps on the stairs, and neither of them moved, only Sherlock called out, “Whoever it is, tell them to go away.”

“You know I’ve long since ignored that request,” came a familiar voice that caused John at least to turn around, but Sherlock stayed perfectly still. “Don’t get up.”

“I won’t,” came the dismissive answer.

“Isn’t it time you two started working on cases again? The world is still turning, you know.” Mycroft glanced around the troubling scene.

John put his cold mug down and folded his arms, sending the older Holmes a dangerous look, “One of my closest friends was just killed by the same psychopathic blackmailer that has caused me to also lose my wife and a child I’ve never even met, and made my best friend blame himself for everything that has gone wrong in the world. So excuse me if I don’t feel like solving everybody else’s problems right now.”

“Whilst I understand your sentiment John, and you do have my sympathies, just what is sitting here moping going to accomplish? The man who did all that is still at large, as are many others. Are you just going sit in that chair drinking tea and give up?”

“Unless you have leads or information on Magnussen, I’m not interested,” declared Sherlock.

“Do you really think I’d share any of my information with one so dull and out of practice?” retorted Mycroft, “No, indeed not. It’s much too important.”

His provocation seemed to have the desired effect, Sherlock shot up from the sofa and stormed over, “Tell me what you know.”

“No. It would be too risky. You’re emotional, volatile even. Warm yourself up first, I’m working on something.  When it’s done I’ll show you. Good day, brother dear.”

Mycroft left before either of them could protest. Sherlock’s silent defiance lead him to the pile of cases that he had been ignoring and he angrily flicked through them all as John looked on, trying to judge his next course of action. He knew Mycroft had deliberately riled his friend up, and was pretty sure he knew it too, but he made a good point. Their time was much better spent doing what they did best, solving crimes and getting dangerous people off the street, but somehow he still felt unable to find any enthusiasm for it. They had spectacularly failed so many people at the most crucial moment, and he didn’t think he could do that again.

“Sherlock?” said John after a while.

“Yes John?” came the distracted answer as his friend frowned at a newspaper clipping.

“Do you really think we can beat Magnussen?”

“Yes, John.”

“For Molly?"

Sherlock looked up from the articles he was poring over and stayed silent for a while, before slowly nodding. “For Molly.”


	3. Three

When somebody wakes up in a place they don’t expect to, the first reaction is generally “Where am I and what the hell happened?” Usually followed by discreetly trying to escape from wherever they have ended up. Harriet was extremely well versed in many different forms of this thought pattern. From waking up six hundred miles away from home with no shoes to being in the cleaning cupboard of a museum and having to pretend to be the new cleaner for a whole morning. In her case this utter confusion was accompanied by a foul headache, a dry mouth, and about a hundred missed calls and messages from concerned friends and family member. However, waking up on the sofa of a pale yellow bedroom, in a flat she actually owned, with sun streaming through the window, had never actually happened before. She sat up with a start, bleary and rubbing her eyes, blinking rapidly. She stretched and winced as her neck gave a tremendous click, and looked around. The bed that she was sitting at the foot of had been slept in, but was now empty. There were a few clothes and odd bits and pieces she didn’t recognise scattered about. She hadn’t dreamed it. She did actually have a new flat mate. Technically two.

It was the arrival of those very same flat mates that caused her to actually smile. Mary grinned when she saw her sworn defender had stirred, and promptly passed her a hot mug of coffee, taking a seat by her side.

“Thanks,” murmured Harry with a nod,

“No problem. Though you do realise you don’t actually have to sleep walk out of your own bed for our sake?”

As if in response she suddenly gave a slight ‘oof’ and doubled over.  Alarmed, Harry reached out to her with her spare hand, and her startled deer impression made Mary laugh, which just made her even more confused. In response, she grabbed the outstretched hand and held it to her stomach. What Harriet felt was something like bubbles, but stronger and more localised. The last time she’d felt that was before John had been born. She dropped her hand as the kicking stopped, and looked at Mary.

“That’s just weird.”

“You think so huh? Try being on this end of it.” Her companion laughed, “You sleep ok then?”

“Must’ve done. And you?”

Mary shook her head, “No, not really. Well, until you wandered in. I don’t remember much after that.”

Harry gave a slight smirk. She cast an eye over Mary’s face, noticing slight flickers she hadn’t before, and the way she anxiously kept fiddling with her wedding ring as she looked at the floor. The older woman realised that she had been very one sided. Yes, her brother’s friend had died, in unpleasant circumstances, and he had lost his family, but Mary had lost them too. If anyone understood how horrible losing John Watson was, it was Harriet Watson. A sudden high-pitched ringing snapped both of them out of their heads, and they looked around for the source of the sound, only to realise it was coming from Harriet. She leaned forward to look under her seat, and found her mobile telephone there. The number flashing up was one of the biggest companies she worked with. Ordinarily she would answer right away.             

“You know something?” she said to Mary as the phone continued to ring in her hand.

“I know many things. But what in particular?”

“In twenty years, I’ve never actually taken time off work.” Her sister-in-law wondered where she was going with this. “I think I’m overdue a sabbatical.” She pressed the decline button, and turned her phone off, throwing it under the bed. “Much better things to do with my time.” She stood up, hoisting Mary up as well, “Breakfast?”

===

There was a strange calmness and warmth  permeating the air in Harry’s flat. She and Mary were eating pancakes in a comfortable silence, both flicking through newspapers. When the newest copy of The Stage had arrived on the doorstep, Mary had received such a look from Harry as to not breathe a word of it to her brother, so she didn’t even comment on the material. The older woman couldn’t remember the last time she’d still been in her pyjamas after ten o’clock, or actually had a relaxed, non-working weekend. Unfortunately, the domestic bliss of the scene was soon interrupted by Harry’s buzzer going off by the door. Frowning, she very rarely got company, the resident walked over to the little monitor that showed who was calling, and looked stricken.

“Shit!”

Mary jumped to her feet, “What?! Who is it?”

“It’s John. Quick, hide!”

“OK!...Where?”

“Um…my room. He’d never dare go in there.”

Mary nodded and waddled as fast as she could to Harry’s room, shutting the door just as the buzzer rang again, more impatient this time. John’s face was looking intently at the screen, somewhat annoyed.

“Um, hi, John. Come on up.”

It was too late that she noticed the clear signs of two people having breakfast, and mentally kicked herself, quickly grabbing the empty bowls and plates and shoving them in the sink with a clatter before doing a strange little half-jog towards the door. Standing the other side of it was a rather puzzled looking John, and Harriet forced a cheery smile. John looked passed her shoulder and saw the two mugs that she had accidentally left out, and realised she was still in her pyjamas.

“Am I…interrupting?” he asked as he returned his gaze to his sister.

Harriet bit her lip and rapidly shook her head. “No, not at all. Make yourself at home, I’ll put the kettle on.”

Sceptical, John let himself through and perched on the same spot of the couch where Mycroft had been the previous night. He noticed a few things out of place, a different kind of perfume smell, a blanket he didn't recognise, and a pair of women’s shoes under the table that were definitely not Harry’s size.

“So, what brings you to my neck of the woods then JJ?”

“I told you not to call me that…about thirty two years ago.”

“You forget things,” she shrugged. “So?”

“Sherlock’s out…something about a case, I didn’t feel like joining him and I, er, didn’tfancybeingonmyown,” he coughed, and then turned as Harry sat in the chair opposite him, “So…what’s her name?”

“Sorry?”

“Come on, Harry. You’re not at work. You’re not even dressed. There were two mugs of coffee out, still vaguely warm, and those are definitely not your Manolos.”

Harriet grumbled, “You’ve been spending too much time…wait…did you just recognise a brand of women’s shoes?”

“Shut up. Name?”

Harriet had to think quickly and shrugged, “Sis…um, Sissy? Her name is Sissy.”

“And is it serious?”

The woman glanced over at the now closed door of her bedroom, and nodded, “Um, yes. Fairly. She, er, went back to bed. Long day yesterday.”

There was a long pause, in which Harry took the opportunity to get up and pour hot water into her teapot, partly to hide the redness of her cheeks and slight perspiration that came of having to lie to her brother under exceedingly stressful circumstances. At least John seemed to be fooled, for now.

John gave his signature slow nod after he had taken in what had been said, “Well, good for you. Very good. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Harriet nodded. A while. A few years, really. She had lost track of how long it had been, and hadn’t really felt like going out there again after everything that had happened. The thing was, it didn’t seem to bother her all that much. Sometimes she got lonely at night, as anybody would when you were married to your job, and she missed her ex-wife terribly. At least now she had some sort of company, however it had come around.

“Tell me about her?”

John found himself actually genuinely interested in what she had to say. He had found Harriet quite a comfort after they had eventually started touching base again. He could see how much she had improved, and some old memories of good times when they were younger had started resurfacing. Now he was bereft of Mary, he at least had the heart enough to be glad that Harry had found somebody. He gave a small gesture of thanks when handed his tea, and instantly seemed to feel more at ease now she was around.

Harry however, was now having to think on the spot, again. This time she sat next to him. “She’s, great. A few years younger than me, pretty funny, very sweet. Quite strong-minded.”

Her brother gave a slight smile, “She sounds like a catch.”

“Indubitably. How about you? How have you been?”

“Eh. Up and down really. A bit more down lately, I suppose. But I’ll get over it.”

Harry gently rested her hand on top of his, “Understandable. You will though. And I’m right here for you, this time.”

John patted his sister’s hand and ventured a small smile of appreciation, “I know. I appreciate it.”

Neither of them could quite believe that they were sitting around like this. It had been at least thirty years since they could be in each other’s company, and be happy about it. John wasn’t bailing Harry out, and Harry was trying to make amends. John suddenly looked up, seemingly having come to a decision about something.

“Are you working this week?”

Harry smiled and shook her head, “I decided to take a bit of a break, so I have some time off.”

“Good.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Will you come to dinner one night? I know Sherlock would be fascinated to meet you and it would be nice to…y’know.”

“Eat?” John nodded. “Sounds great. I’d love to.”


	4. Four

Harry spent as much time talking to John as she could without feeling guilty about trying to make him leave. She was well aware of Mary sitting waiting in her room, and was grateful when John got a call that took him away, with promises they would do dinner another night, and even a very quick hug. As he left, she hurried over to her room and opened the door, all ready to make apologies and jokes about timing, and ask if she was ok, but she didn’t need to say anything. Mary was sat on her bed, a photo album she had found and out of curiosity opened was on her lap, and she was holding a beautifully framed picture of her wedding.  Tears were flooding down her cheeks, and she was trying to calm herself down. She didn’t even turn around until Harry came over and stood next to her. She looked up at Harry, who took the photo out of her shaking hands, putting it back on the dresser, and held them, rather at loss for things to do.

“Why didn’t you come?”

“I wanted the two of you to have the best day of your life. If I had gone, John would do a John and start worrying all over the place. I wanted to him to enjoy it, hot-mess-less.”

Mary gave a small smile and sniffed, “Now who’s the hot mess?”

“Mary, whilst you are exceedingly hot, you’re not a mess. You’re my sister, and I promise I’ll look after you like I never could John. I’ll look after him too, if he’ll let me.”

Mary laughed, and then immediately wrapped her arms around Harry, burying her head in her sister-in-law’s chest. The older woman put a comforting arm around her shoulders, absent-mindedly stroking her hair with her spare hand. They stayed like that for a while, until Mary managed to pull herself away and wipe her face. She was acutely embarrassed by her own behaviour, but she couldn’t have held it in any more.

“You should go grab a shower,” suggested Harry, “Always makes me feel better. Then we can go out and get some fresh air and lunch or something, ok?”

The younger blonde stood up, “I do need some new clothes. I haven’t had much time to prepare.”

“Then we’ll get you some. Go on then,” Harry gently put a hand on Mary’s shoulder, nudging toward the door.

Just before she closed it behind her, Mary stopped, “Harry?”

“Mary.”

“Thank you.”

Harry just gave a single nod, and stared at the spot she had been for a few moments, before  making a move towards her own clothes. She suddenly realised that she had offered to take Mary out, but had no idea where John or his friend might be, and she couldn’t let them know about her yet. As if on cue, the phone on her bedside table rang. It wasn’t a number she recognised, but it looked legitimate, so she picked it up.

“Miss Watson,” came the now familiar voice, Mycroft.

“Mr Holmes?”

“Indeed.”

“Can I help you?”

“You appear to have settled into your role as caretaker well. If my calculations are correct, might you and Mrs Watson be planning an excursion?”

“Yes…” replied Harry slowly, “She needs clothes,”

“Ah, of course. Right, in that case. Would it be acceptable for me to direct you _away_ from my brother and your own? I don’t mean to chaperone, I mean merely to send the occasional message or call, should you be coming close.”

“How did you…?”

“I know everything, my dear girl.”

“Mycroft…we’re the same age.”

“Actually, I have three months on you. None the less. I shall make sure you never come into contact with anybody who might recognise yourself or your sister in law.”

Before Harry could protest her point, the phone went dead, and she stared at it in her hand.  She shook her head and rolled her eyes, putting it down. She rather hoped Sherlock wouldn’t be too much like him at dinner, whenever that happened, but she had a sneaking suspicion he would be worse.

===

John’s visit to Harriet had somewhat lifted his spirits. He had forgotten how warm and caring she could be, when she hadn’t been drinking. He missed the feeling of family around him. He’d been thinking back to the days growing up, with his parents and sister.  Sunday roasts, family holidays, the simplicity of it all. Then he remembered Sherlock had called him back to Baker Street on an ‘urgent’ matter. It could be anything from a missing pencil to a homicidal maniac (again). When he found him standing and staring at his case board, he took it as a good sign they should go back into business.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Sherlock retorted in frustration. There went John's work theory.

“Mycroft still not talking then?”

The consulting detective shook his head and flopped down onto the sofa, disgruntled. This probably wasn’t the best time to bring up his proposal, but John thought that it was better sooner rather than later, to give him time to adjust.

“So we’re fairly…um, free, this week, then?”

“For now…much as it annoys me. Why?”

“Because my sister’s coming around for dinner.”

Sherlock sat bolt upright, “What? When?”

“Whenever we can work it out.

“Why here?”

“Because we could use a fresh face and I know for a fact you’ll refuse to go to her. I also know you’ve been wanting to meet her for a while now.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Yes. You have. I think you’ll like her. She’s been very supportive of me, and she’s off the drink.”

“No she isn’t.”

John gave a small, knowing smile. For once he knew for a fact his sister was clean, and he half cherished the thought of her proving Sherlock wrong. Plus, he had a sneaking suspicion it would be good for them to meet. Even on her worst days Harry was pretty sharp, and she wouldn’t put up with nonsense from anybody. Not even the great Sherlock Holmes. It was strange to think that his alcoholic sister was probably the least complicated person in his life, with all her issues. As he looked at his friend’s somewhat unimpressed face as he sat on the sofa, he suddenly had a flash back of something he had forgotten about completely.

_John was six years old. It was Thursday night, the night his father was usually back from work late. Knowing this, he had snuck into his father’s office to play, pretending that he was as successful and rich as him. He spun around on the chair and rifled through drawers. He saw a glass trophy sitting up on the top shelf of a bookcase. Curious, he clambered up the shelves, reaching for it. His fingers brushed the cold stand, but he overstretched, and lost his footing. Both he and the trophy fell to the floor with a tremendous crash, and it shattered in to dozens of little pieces._

_Shocked, and having hit the floor rather hard, John started to wail, terrified by the splinters all around him, and the thought of how his father would react when he found out. The door flung open, and, always the first to respond to his fears, Harriet, all of ten years old, ran in. She took a quick survey of the surroundings, working out what had happened, and her face paled. She hurried forward to John, scooping him into her arms and away from the glittering shards._

_“JJ! What are you doing in here?” she hissed urgently, well aware that any minute their father would be home._

_“I wanted to…be like daddy,” snuffled and hiccupped the child._

_“Shh, shh, it’s ok.”  Harriet pulled her sleeve down and wiped her brother’s face._

_“What the hell happened in here?!” came a sudden roar from the door._

_Both children turned around in horror as their father stormed in. His eyes were furious as he saw what his children had done. A trembling John was about to apologise, but Harriet clamped her hand over his mouth and shook her head._

_“It was me. I’m sorry daddy. I wanted to show JJ your award, but I slipped.”_

_“Why am I not surprised it was you Harriet Jocelyn? Stupid child! John! Go to your mother.”_

_Harriet let John down and he darted for the door, only once glancing back and seeing the look of sheer terror on his older sister’s face before she realised he was watching, and promptly put up a blank expression. The door was open a crack, and after a moment of recovery, John crouched outside._

_His father was sat behind his desk, and a little Harriet was stood in front of him, her back to her brother._

_“What do you think you’re playing out you idiot girl! How many times have I told you never to come in here, but you just don’t listen do you? You always disappoint me, day after day! And this time you drag your little brother into it as well! He could have gotten seriously hurt! Useless, useless child!”_

_“I know. I’m sorry daddy. I’m really, really sorry.”_

_“You will be!”_

It was that point John’s brain didn’t want him to remember past, and he was suddenly struck by a thought. How many more times had that happened? And how had he forgotten?


	5. Five

“You’re having _dinner_ with Sherlock Holmes?” Mary could hardly contain her laughter.

Harry pulled a face and shrugged, “Yea. Apparently. I’m wondering if I should worry about eyeballs in my soup, or toes in the carrots or something.”

“I think it might be best to get a take out,” suggested Mary, having forgotten for now her misery, in the face of fresh air and sunshine.

“I might just cook something for them and take it around. John always liked my pork chops. Does Sherlock even eat? He’s such a skinny bastard.”

“He’ll eat if John makes him.”

“Well, when everything calms down again, at least next time I’ll have your sane company.”

“Me? Sane?”

“…ish.”

The surety that Harry showed in knowing everything would be resolved had a habit of making people at ease, even in the worst situations. She was very good in a crisis, and in her line of work you needed it.  There was bound to be a personality clash or two, or somebody needing a boost of confidence, and she was the one that stepped in. They had been out for a few hours already, and the time had gone quite quickly. It was nice to do something so ordinary. Every corner they turned, somebody had recognised Harry and given her a quick friendly nod.

“Do you know everyone in London?”

“Only the ones that have jobs.”

“And those that don’t?”

“Aren’t looking or haven’t found me. I’m very good, you see.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

As the two women walked, their every move was carefully monitored. Mycroft had eyes on every part of the city, even though he didn’t really expect his brother, or his brother’s partner to leave their flat. However, neither did he expect to catch at every turn, somebody following them. At first he had thought of it as nothing, but the same figure appeared in every clip. They never showed their face to a camera, and Mycroft was on instant alert.

“Anthea…can you do me a favour?”

Back on the street, Harry’s phone went off. She hid the surprise on her face, and put it back in her pocket, ducking into the nearest shop, herding Mary in front of her. She cast a furtive glance around, spotting the nearest camera, and nodded at it. Moments later, the shadowy figure that had been following them, had been grabbed on the street.

===

The next couple of days were a strange blur of looking after and laughing with Mary, and meeting up and reminiscing with John and generally living a normal, happy life. To a degree. Harry was secretly loving the fact that she could actually really help people she cared about, and make them feel better. She loved less being unable to tell either of them the one thing that would help them out most. She had already warned Mycroft that it was hard for her to keep them apart, but he hadn’t responded. At least he had agreed to take over Mary watch whilst Harry was out tonight. There was a knock at the door, and the woman in question walked in. They had gotten quite used to their arrangement, and were quite frequently dropping in on one another.

"I have no idea what I’m expected to wear or say at this point,” sighed Harry, throwing a blouse behind her and on to the bed, “I can’t remember the last time John and I ate together, and I’m pretty sure my conversation would bore Sherlock to tears.”

“Don’t worry, he wouldn’t dare make a scene when John is around. You’re best off being yourself, it’s not like our bespoke sociopath won’t know everything about you as soon as you walk into the room.”

“Was that supposed to be comforting?”

Mary shrugged, “It was just a friendly warning, I suppose.”

“Are you sure you’re ok with me doing this? Leaving you here, I mean?”

“You mean how do I feel about my dinner date with the British Government?”

“Yea, that.”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry. You’ve already put your life on hold enough for me. Plus I can also ring you in an emergency if you need saving.”

“I probably will.”

“Here.”

Mary grabbed the catch of the necklace that Harry was fiddling with, doing it up for her. It was such a strangely serene moment that they could forget for a while just what a chaotic mess they were caught in the middle of. They complimented each other well, both fiery, independent people, with a lot of hurt and a lot of love in their hearts, and they finally found someone who understood. They were mixed up in their own ways, but they were decidedly better now they had found somebody to relate to.

“I’ll try not to leave you at Mycroft’s mercy for too long,” Harry grinned, “Or…him at yours, I suppose.”

“Oi!”

Harry laughed and ducked out of the way as Mary swiped at her. Finally deciding to just go with what she usually wore, she picked up the food she had made from the side, and gave Mary a wave, before letting in Mycroft, and disappearing out of the front door.

===

If Harry was nervous about meeting Sherlock and John for dinner, they were both even worse. He didn’t say it out loud, but Sherlock knew how much she meant to his friend, and he really didn’t want to mess it up. He paced agitatedly up and down his room, wondering whether to smoke one or two hundred cigarettes. He didn’t really know how to act in a way that made people want to like him, he was all for just being his usual, some may say obnoxious, self. But because it mattered to John, it mattered to him. He’d settled for forcing himself to keep his mouth shut and trying to hide his nature as much as possible. He stopped mid stride and closed his eyes, rifling through his mind palace for any insight he could get on Harry, and came up with the barest bones.

“SHERLOCK!” came a yell from the kitchen.

Nothing could make Sherlock run faster, and he shot out of his room, only to stop dead. John, dressed in his smartest jumper and least worn trousers, was standing by the fridge, looking into it.

“Oh. You’re fine. What is it?”

John whirled around. “Fine? _Fine?!_ Where is the food Mrs Hudson sorted out for me? Carrots are now toes, the potatoes have been replaced by what I really hope isn’t human kidneys, and THE BEEF IS A HEAD!”

“…Oh.”

“Oh?! What the hell Sherlock? My sister, who I’ve been estranged from for thirty years, is due for dinner, any moment now. I CANNOT SERVE MY SISTER HUMAN HOT POT!”

He slammed the door shut so hard the kitchen juddered. He desperately started opening and slamming doors of cupboard and drawers, and Sherlock just stood watching him, not entirely sure how to react. He knew a glib comment would be exceedingly badly received. He was kicking himself for already letting John down. He had been nervous, and when he was nervous he experimented. There was a knock on the door. John didn’t hear it he was so frantically trying to solve something, so Sherlock deigned to go over.  As he opened it, he came face to face with Harry, and had no idea what to say. She was definitely not what he had pictured. She wasn’t staggering all over the place, her make up wasn’t smudged, she didn’t smell even faintly of alcohol. They just stared at each other awkwardly for a moment, Sherlock clocking what he could.

_Single. Alcoholic. Aveda. Ambitious. Dog person. Buspirone. Claustrophobic. Non-judgemental. Adventurous. Protective._

Having formerly been introduced to Mycroft, Harry just sort of stood there and waited whilst Sherlock took her details. She was in a smart blouse, so she had made a bit of an effort, but she was still in jeans and her usual heeled boots, perhaps in an attempt to be more relaxed around the pair of them.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes. When you’re finished.” Harry smiled as Sherlock stopped deducing her and shook his hand, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Um. Yes, you too. Come on in.”

The first thing Harry noticed about the apartment, was John frantically speeding around the kitchen, and then freezing abruptly as he spotted Sherlock with Harry, glaring daggers at him, before proceeding to try and hide the fact everything was open by closing them again. She looked quizzically at the consulting detective and sighed, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, I’ll save your ass.”

She brightly bounded into the kitchen, and Sherlock noticed that she was actually holding a casserole dish as she plonked it on the counter. She immediately rolled up her sleeves and headed to the sink to wash her hands, taking charge of the situation.

“John, set the table please. Sherlock, come and show me how this oven works.” The two grown men looked at each other in surprise, until Harry spoke again, “Thanks for having me around little brother. We can catch up in a minute. Chop chop,” she gave them an easy grin and they immediately set to work.

Having effectively diffused the tension in the room, Harry came and stood by Sherlock as he tried to explain how things worked. He glanced behind him to check John wasn’t near enough to hear them, and scratched the back of his head, clearing his throat.

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“I suppose you’re welcome.”


	6. Six

After the initial hiccups, everything seemed to run much more smoothly. Harry presented them with a wonderful meal, completely brushing off the fact she was supposed to be the guest. She had made herself quite at home, and the ease and happiness in the way brother and sister talked to each other was like nothing Sherlock had ever seen before.

“You were a little wretch!” Harry giggled, “Remember when you hid in that department store after mum said you couldn’t get that cowboy hat?” Sherlock’s face lit up at this, and John just glared at him, “We were there searching for about 2 hours, and we found you asleep under one of the beds. With that damn hat.”

John groaned in his chair, sliding down it and covering his face. Sherlock gave him a sideways glance, covering the fact that he was grinning with his hands. Figuring he would leave his friend to recover for a moment, Sherlock surprised himself when he gathered up the plates and took them to the kitchen. Two pairs of eyes followed him, equally disbelieving.  Harry leaned forward and whispered in John’s ear.

“Am I doing ok? Does he like me?” she hissed anxiously.

“Like you?” John replied, staring at his friend’s back. “He loves you. He hasn’t said a word, which means I think he’s actually listening. If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t listen. Not to mention he’s actually eaten an entire meal.” he paused, “But did you really have to bring up the go go boots?”

“Yes.” Harry burst out laughing at John’s expression, “So, where’s the bathroom?”

“Just down the hall,”

“Cool. Back in a sec.”

As she departed, Sherlock came back over and sat back next to John. He had learned a great deal from this meal, and every assumption he had made about Harriet before meeting her had been dismissed. He couldn’t quite bring himself to admit it, but John knew, and he loved it.

“Told you she was off the drink.”

“Yes, yes you did.”

“So…what do you think?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Why does it matter what I think?”

John’s face fell, “You didn’t?”

Sherlock look surprised, “No, I did. I did like her. I just query why it matters what I think.”

“Because it would be really swell if after all that’s happened, my support system didn’t, y’know, fall apart?”

“I suppose. Now…” a slow smile crossed the dark haired man’s lips, “Cowboys?”

“Pirates?”

“Stand up chameleon?” Harry had come back, and shrugged at the looks she got, “I thought we were playing what we wanted to be when we grew up.”

“Wait. You?” John raised his eyebrows, “You wanted to be a stand up _chameleon_?”

Harry nodded, “Yes. You couldn’t say comedian when you were five either,” she pointed out, sitting down again. “We’re not The Holmes’, we’re the Watsons.”

“Sorry, I just…” John shook his head, “You wanted to stand up on stage and have people laugh at you? _You_?”

“No. I wanted to make them laugh, and make them happy.” She smiled, “I wanted to be a lot of things,” there was a wistful look in her eyes as she turned away, staring at a spot above her head, as she turned back, she was all business, “But now I settle for making people what they want to be. Cake?”

“You made cake too?” John was astounded.

“No, but Mrs Hudson just walked in with one. Hello Mrs Hudson, let me help.”

She immediately got up and walked over to the older woman, relieving her of a Victoria sponge, who stared at her with some awe. The infamous other Watson, she’d finally put in an appearance. She gave a gentle nod to Mrs Hudson, not minding being stared at. It seemed to have become quite a tradition.

“Will you join us? I haven’t even started on John and Alfred yet,”

“Oh God, no,” John hid again.

“Alfred?” Questioned Mrs Hudson with intrigue.

“Sock monkey I made him. Please, sit down. Boys, one of you stick the kettle on, the other, grab an extra chair for Mrs Hudson.”

Mrs Hudson was immediately struck by just how responsive the ‘boys’ were to Harry’s commands, and had to hide her giggle, in case they noticed what they were doing. Harry gave her a wink that they couldn’t see, clearing space for their dessert.

===

_John had come home from school early, persuading everybody he was feeling horribly ill and had a terrible headache. The second one wasn’t a lie, but he just couldn’t bear to be there. All the boys in his class had taken to picking on him because he was being such a ‘teacher’s pet’ and a ‘nerd’. In truth, they were jealous that he was very bright, and also pretty damn good at football. He was forever being held up as an example, and he hated it. He ran up to his room, tore off his tie, threw himself on his bed and curled up, sobbing into his pillow. He was there for a while, until he was suddenly aware of a figure leaning in the door frame, watching him._

_“Go away,”_

_“Do you really want me to?”_

_It was Harriet. He tried to ignore the fact that she was painfully thin, with pale skin and red-rimmed eyes, drowned in a huge black hoodie and ripped jeans. She was currently on suspension from school for fighting and, rumour had it, having alcohol hidden in her desk. John barely ever saw her now, except at dinner. Then she was generally silent, and left as soon as she had finished. The only other times were when he had a football game._

_“No. I missed you.” The gangly teenager closed the door behind her and sat herself on the bed. John immediately rested his head on her lap and she hugged him, kissing his forehead. “Where have you been?”_

_Harry gave a warm smile, not wanting to trouble her little brother, “I haven’t been feeling very well, sorry JJ.”_

_“Are you feeling better?”_

_“Not really. But it’s ok, I’m not infectious, promise.” She ruffled his hair, “Now. What’s going on?”_

_“James and Tony,” mumbled John, “They stole my football boots and threw my bag in the bin. Again.”_

_“Oh. I see. Can your friends not punch them for you?”_

_John looked at her. “Friends? I don’t have friends.”_

_Harry’s eyebrows raised at his dismissiveness, “Then I better get you one.”_

_John had no idea what she was on about, but from her hoodie pocket, she brought out a tiny sewing kit, a felt tip, and some stripy green socks. John, his curiosity calming him, watched her work silently on her lap and the bed. She measured, marked, stretched, cut and sewed. He watched every movement carefully, his tears drying and his troubles forgotten. The stitches were a little wonky, and she pricked her finger numerous times, but after some time, she’d produced a marvellous sock puppet. She grabbed two buttons for eyes and sewed them on as a final detail, and then passed it to John._

_“Where did you learn that?” he was quite delighted with his present._

_“Rina’s mum. Now, you know what you have to do?” John shook his head, “Next time those idiots bother you, tell them that your sister the witch has put a magic spell on this, and that if they give you any trouble, I’ll turn them in to frogs.”_

_John laughed in delight. He knew it was only pretend, but James and Tony were stupid, and they’d believe it. He hadn’t realised Harry knew what people at school called her, but he thought it best not to comment on it._

_“Thanks Harry.”_

_“No problem JJ. So, what are you gonna call him then?”_

_“Alfred!" exlaimed the nine year old. We were reading about Alfred the Great last week. No way would they mess with Alfred the Great.”_

_Harry laughed as John flung his arms around her._


	7. Seven

The short dinner had turned in to several hours, and now the four of them were sitting in the living room. They had rearranged to make room for everyone, pulling the spare armchair over. John had given Mrs Hudson his, so took the other one. Harry quite happily declined and made herself comfortable on the floor, leaning against John’s legs, with her own tucked under her. She had long since taken off her boots, and John had even stoked the fire to life. It was a pleasant scene, Mrs Hudson, Harry and John held the majority of the conversation, and Sherlock merely nodded and assessed.

“Sherlock. You’ve barely said a word,” commented Harry brightly, “Are you alright?”

“Hm?” he had clearly been elsewhere, “Yes. I’m fine, thank you.”

“Dare I ask what you were thinking?” she carried on,

“Oh, that’s a dangerous thing to do,” warned Mrs Hudson, and John laughed in agreement.

Harry smiled, “Go on. It looked interesting.”

Sherlock appreciated her standing up for him, although what he was thinking about was difficult to explain. As he watched John and Harry he could see how much they cared about each other, and every trace of a happy childhood together. He hadn’t seen his friend in such high spirits or laughing so much for a long time. He was a little jealous, maybe, that Harry could have this effect on him. However, he turned his jealousy into something more productive.

“I was actually composing, I suppose. In my head.”

“Oh!” Harry looked delighted, and even Mrs Hudson perked up, “John tells me you’re somewhat of a virtuoso. Could you play something? Pretty please? I suppose I really should go in a bit, it would be a nice send off.”

“Yes, go on Sherlock. She did cook for you,” pointed out the landlady,

“And she’s survived a whole evening with you,” added John.

“That deserves a medal, let alone a violin solo.” Mrs Hudson finished.

“Fine, fine.” He begrudgingly stood up and grabbed his instrument, “I haven’t played in a while, so forgive me my rustiness.”

He watched his captive audience for a moment, before clearing his throat and warming up. John, Harry and Mrs Hudson were all completely silent and respectful. Once he had found his feet he quite happily lost himself in the music, gradually drowning out both their presence and his own thoughts. He had no idea what he was playing, something entirely new. It wasn’t a piece his flatmate or landlady had heard before, or recognised, and Harry didn’t have anything to go off. The violin permeated the air and the great consulting detective found himself clearing his mind and letting go of a stress he didn’t realise had held on to him for so long. Harry was on the verge of tears listening, and John rested a hand on her shoulder, she had always been quite sensitive. When he had finally finished, his companions burst into spontaneous applause, and Sherlock allowed himself a grin. He didn’t quite expect Harry to rush forward and hug him.

“That was amazing Sherlock,” she gushed, “Thank you so much for indulging me,” the older woman let him go, “But I suppose I really should go,” she sighed, and wandered over to the door, grabbing her royal blue peacoat and stepping into her boots.

“It’s been great having you Harry,” John smiled and hugged her, something he hadn’t done in a very long time.

Touched, Harry held him tight back, “Can we do this again?”

“Of course we can.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Mrs Hudson couldn’t resist and walked forward for her own hug, Harry dwarfed her and completely engulfed her with the embrace, but she laughed, “It’s been a real pleasure meeting you inally Harriet. I hope we see you again soon.”

“Count on it Mrs Hudson.”

Harry winked and walked out, leaving the three residents of Baker St standing by the door, feeling a strange sort of loss at her disappearance.

“Well, I think that went alright, don’t you?” commented John.

Sherlock and Mrs Hudson simply nodded.


	8. Eight

It was barely two minutes after Harry had left the flat at 221b, that John and Sherlock heard a gunshot. Fearing the worst, and suspecting it was true, John flew down the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. A little way down the street, leaning heavily against a gate, was his sister. She was still standing, her back flat against the metal, and one very bruised and scraped hand covering the opposite arm. There was a gash across her shoulder, and blood was seeping through her fingers. She saw John coming running towards her, closely followed by Sherlock.

“John, it’s ok. It’s just a graze. Pretty much cauterised itself.”

“Harry! God, what the hell happened?”

“A jackass shot me, so I punched him. He ran away, but I don’t think he’ll be conscious long. Not too sure about myself though.”

As Harry staggered and swayed, John caught one side of her, and Sherlock took his lead, grabbing the other. Together they led her back in to their flat, much to the shock of Mrs Hudson who was waiting by the door. She was promptly barked at to get a first aid kit as Harry was escorted into Sherlock’s chair. She was rather off put by her little brother fussing all over her, but knew she didn’t have much choice in the matter.  She felt blurry and things sounded tinny and distant. John could see her going and shook her awake, trying to stop her falling into shock.

“At least it worked,” she murmured, her words slurring together.

“Harry, stay with me. What worked?”

“I kept him away from Mary.”

“Mary? What about Mary?”

Harry barely knew what she was saying, her eyes were bleary and unfocused. “She came to me. I’ve been protecting them. She couldn’t hide with the baby. Oh. Tell Mycroft he needs to take over for tonight…”

She slumped in the chair as John tended to her wound with a pale face and pursed lips. Thankfully, she had merely fainted.

===

When she came to again, she had no idea where she was, until she recognised the smell of the room. It was her brother’s aftershave. His room was simple, his favourite army green paint on the walls, a desk in the corner, a few odd bits of worn furniture, very basic. The only personal touches were his wedding picture on the wall, and the wardrobe door open slightly, showing his clothes. She sat up, disorientated, and winced as a sharp pain went down her arm. It was currently in a sling and felt very hot to the touch. She couldn’t remember anything that she had said to John, but she saw him sitting on a chair by the bed, with only very dim recollection of what had transpired.

“John?”

“Harry! Thank God you’re awake! How do you feel?”

“Lost?” she suddenly remembered her sister in law at home, and tried to scramble out of bed, “I have to go!”

She stood up, but the blood rushing to her head forced her to promptly sit down again as dark spots crossed her vision. John had hurried over to steady her.

“It’s alright. Mary is with Mycroft.”

“Oh, thank god!” then she realised what he had said. “Oh, John. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t…”

John held up a hand to stop her, he wasn’t sure whether to be angry or hurt. “Just, explain.”

“I don’t quite know, if I’m honest. I got home from work as usual on Friday, and somehow Sherlock’s brother had disabled my alarm and gotten into my flat. Next thing I knew, Mary was there, and they wanted me to look after her. I don’t know why. But I wasn’t going to turf her out into the street, especially with baby on the way, and there’s that whole family get-out-of -jail- free card thing too.” She smiled.

“Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry Harry, this is all my fault.”

“Wait, what?” Harry was astounded, “Don’t be so silly.”

“No, it’s true. It’s true.” He furiously ran his hands through his hair.

“How is this possibly your fault?”

“Because it’s me! I have a habit of royally screwing up the lives of everyone I know and getting them into trouble. First I voluntarily joined the army. As a _Doctor._ Then there’s Sherlock, and all the danger and chaos that involves, and me following him everywhere like a fool. Add to the mix my former-assassin wife and I don’t know how I’m still alive. Molly isn’t.  Dozens of other people aren’t. I know what I do is stupid, and dangerous, and I drag people down with me. I just can’t stop myself. I’m like a bloody moth to a flame. It scares me, Harry. It terrifies me. But I still follow the same patterns over and over again. Now I’ve messed everything up for you as well, just as you were getting your life back!”

He turned in a range and punched he mirror by his wardrobe, scaring the life out of Harry and smashing the glass. In that moment he was once more the little boy she had grown up protecting, surrounded by all the hazards in the world, and she reached out to him, grabbing his now bleeding hand and gently picking the splinters out of it.

“Stop, John. Just _stop._ ” She soothed, ignoring her own injury to look after his. “Is this really why you’ve been hiding from me for so long?”

“Yes. No. Maybe, God, I don’t even know any more. I didn’t know I was until, about now.”

“JJ. Listen to me, ok? I know I’m not the best base line for a measure of character, but I have known you your entire life. You are one of the bravest, most loving, and kindest people I have ever met. Sure you’ve done stupid stuff in your time,  made your fair share of mistakes, so does everyone. Hello.” She gave a slight wave with her bandaged arm to try and make him smile, “But even so, you don’t _deserve_ all these things that prey on your mind. You haven’t _earned_ them because of being yourself. I know damn well what you’re capable of. What’s happened isn’t your fault. And you know what proves that, beyond any reasonable doubt?”

John shook his head, “Harry, I appreciate...”

“Shush. Just listen. It’s the fact that you just told me, it scares you. Sherlock, Mary, me. We’d all be a bit dead without you, but it isn’t your job to save the world one basket case at a time. I’m sorry I ever put that much pressure on you. It was wrong and selfish and I don’t think I’ll ever make it up to you.  You shouldn’t feel responsible for all the shit that gets chucked at you. You shouldn’t feel scared of yourself.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“I can understand that. But really JJ. For once in your life, let somebody else do the saving _._ I am your big sister after all. I’ll help you, however I can. Just please, start forgiving yourself, and stop kicking the crap out of your own psyche.”


	9. Nine

Sherlock had heard everything that transpired between the Watsons. Not intentionally, for a change. He had been coming to check on their patient, and when he had heard she was awake, he stopped outside the door, waiting for a good time to knock. But none came. Instead he just accidentally eavesdropped on the most private and intimate conversation he could have walked into. He crept away as quietly as he could, not wanting them to realise that they had been discovered. He cleared every distraction he could in the living room, pasting everything he could find about Magnussen, his operators, Molly Hooper, Mary Watson and now Harriet Watson up on the wall. He sent off a quick text to Lestrade. His usual partner was compromised and he wanted to do something. He didn’t notice John come into the room he was so intently focused.

“Sherlock? What are you doing?”

“My job. I’m on the trail of a serial killer.”

“ _Serial killer?_ ”

Sherlock turned around, “Yes. There is no doubt in my mind that the villain who killed Molly Hooper and tried to kill Harriet is also after Mary. After all, Harriet used herself as a decoy.”

“Does that mean we’re in his sights as well then?” John looked exhausted.

The detective stopped pacing, “No. We have enemies who want to play with us. There is no more effective taunt than attempting to dismantle a well-established support system, just because they can. These people mean everything to us, and by eliminating them, they want us to be cast adrift, made easy targets. They want us to themselves, and to do that they have to tear down everything that we have built.”

“Then we better eliminate them first.”

“You’ll need to teach me how to shoot right-handed,” chimed in Harry, who was steadying herself against the wall.

“Harriet, you are in no position to be standing there, let alone talking about _shooting_ people,” scolded John.

“Why not?” challenged his sister, “You shot people. You got shot. You still shoot people when required. I’ve never shot a _person_ in my life. But I have been shot, and there is no way in hell I will not blow the face off any bastard who threatens me or my family again, if required. And yes, Sherlock, before you ask, I’m including you in that too.”

John wasn’t quite sure what to make of her statement. He was part alarmed, part impressed. Sherlock had of course already deduced she was a marksman, when they had met. It was a surprising skill for her to have, but she had taken up shooting as soon as her brother had gone off to war, as a way of relating to him, and as stress management. John however was startled by the fury in her eyes, the ferocity, and the utter truth in her words. Looking at his sister, he had no doubt that she would do anything to protect him, and his family. The fact that she had deliberately called Sherlock part of the family too relieved any doubts in his mind that she would be reckless or shoot when it wasn’t absolutely vital.

“Ms Watson,” Sherlock walked over, and offered a hand, “Welcome aboard.” The pair shook on it,

As Sherlock turned to face the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, they were joined by Lestrade, who was looking utterly confused at the bloody woman shaking the high-functioning sociopath’s hand.

“Uh, who’s this?”

“Harriet Watson, it’s a pleasure Inspector.” Lestrade tentatively took the scraped and bruised hand, turning to Sherlock for an explanation.

“Would you like the bad news or the good news Grant?” Sherlock looked positively excited.

“Greg. And…bad?”

“We’ve picked up the scent of a serial killer and psychopath.”

“Marvellous. So what’s the ‘good’news?”

“He just made himself a very dangerous enemy.”

===

As soon as Harry went through her front door, flanked by John and Sherlock, Mary rushed over. She  flung her arms around her sister-in-law, who winced at the impact but didn’t make it obvious. She patted the woman’s back reassuringly, looking at Mycroft over her shoulder. It was quite a while before she regained movement, as Mary seemed reluctant to let her go.

“Don’t you ever do that again!” she cried, almost crying.

“I’ll try very hard to avoid it,” promised Harry, eventually being freed.

Through all of this, John’s eyes could not leave Mary’s face. He clenched his fists behind his back, and fought to keep his breathing steady. When Mr and Mrs Watson’s eyes finally met, both Holmes’ and Harriet neatly took a step backwards, just in time for the couple to run up and embrace each other. They held on for dear life, touching and kissing, they couldn’t keep off one another. Their three friends had no idea where to look, and all turned in different directions, feeling extremely awkward.

“Uh, I’m gonna go…” Harry didn’t finish her sentence, she just vaguely pointed in the direction of her room.

Without really knowing why, Sherlock and Mycroft followed her. They had no idea what else to do with themselves, and consequently the three of them all ended up in Harry’s room, desperately trying not to listen to the other two people in the flat.

“…Why did I just come in here? I should have gone out of the front door,” realised Mycroft, berating his own stupidity.

“Indeed,” agreed Sherlock.

“It’s my front door, but I’m thinking I should have as well,” Harry sat down on the end of the bed.

“I think we may be here a while,” deduced Sherlock, and, a little stiffly, sat down next to Harry.

Mycroft remained standing, utterly embarrassed at being in a stranger’s room, and a female stranger at that. There were so many lady things about, and it was all quite foreign to him. His younger brother didn’t seem any more relaxed, but he still smirked to himself at the British Government’s reaction to Tampax on the shelf.

“Well. This is cosy,” Harry broke the silence. “Um…anyone for Cluedo?” The simultaneous and identical looks of disgust on the brothers’ faces made their answer quite clear. “OK. Scrabble it is.”

That was how the evening passed. Harry had absolutely no chance of sleeping with Sherlock and Mycroft in the room, however tired she was and neither of them were as impolite as to go out and disturb Mary and John. So they sat on Harry’s bed, and played Scrabble. They put behind them Harry’s bandaged arm, the imminent threat to all of them, the serial killer they were hunting. They thought only of a couple reunited, and an evening with friends. It was unclear how much time passed. The next thing they knew, the three of them were staring out of the window at a sunrise. They were gradually joined by a still slightly tear-stained Mary, who curled up by Harry and rested her head on the good shoulder, and John, who sat next to his wife, holding her hand. As the five of them saw in a new day, they knew whatever happened, at least they weren’t alone.

===

The flat was rather full now, and Harry didn’t know what to do with herself. After they had all been caught up with what had gone on, her living room seemed to have become a base of sorts. She was currently pouring herself a coffee, watching Mary and John stood in the middle of the living room, with Mycroft and Sherlock sat in the sofa the other side of them, opposite her.

“She got shot for me. I should stay here and look after her. You and Sherlock can go off and do your thing, I’ll be ok.”

“I only just got you back, I’m not losing you again," protested her husband.

“You won’t be, I promise. Sherlock, you’ve got a lead in the case now, right?”

Sherlock suddenly sat up straight as he was called to attention, “Um, yes?”

“See? You’re needed at Baker Street.”

“Why? We can bring Baker Street here. Sherlock could get information and report back if I’m needed, and I could stay with you. Right Harry?”

“Um, yes? OK. You can stay here, if you like.” She was mentally combing through the threads that led her from living alone to suddenly having three flatmates.

“That’s settled then. Thank you, Harry.”

He buzzer on the front door went off, and she could hardly believe it. Now who was joining them? It turned out to be Lestrade, and she let him up. He immediately started filling in John and Sherlock about four possible locations for the home base of the people that were after them. Harry sighed deeply, then yawned, and sat herself in the spare seat next to Mycroft.

“I don’t suppose you can coax everyone back to 221b? As much as I appreciate the love and support, I am really tired, and cannot deal with this right now,” she whispered to him.

Mycroft understood. He too liked his own company, and having to be surrounded by people was dreadful to him, let alone your home being invaded when you had just been seriously wounded. Eventually, after much reasoning and debate, he managed to succeed in ushering everyone out. As he was leaving, Harry gave him a look of gratitude he was not used to being on the receiving end of. It quite took him by surprise, but he gave her an understanding, if short, nod.

“I’m very glad you were not more seriously hurt Ms Watson. Good day.”

“Bye, Mycroft.”

Gratefully closing the door, Harry breathed a sigh of relief, and all but keeled over on the sofa again, leaning back and closing her eyes. She was dimly aware of Mary sitting next to her and wrapping both of them in a blanket. She had vowed not to let her older sister-in-law out of sight until she was better, and as it was Mary, Harry didn’t feel too crowded by her.

“I think he likes you, you know,” pointed out the shorter haired woman.

“Who? Mycroft?”

“Yes, Mycroft. I think he’s got a soft spot for you.”

Harry smiled lazily, keeping her eyes closed, “He’s a Holmes. Holmes’ don’t have soft spots.”

“Except when it comes to Watsons. Have a good nap, Harry.”

“Yea, night,” mumbled Harry, she was asleep a moment later. 


	10. Ten

Back at Baker St, John and Sherlock were going over the case files, and trying to work out which possibility would be the most likely place for the man they were hunting to hide. They had decided that the best thing to do was sort it out themselves by catching them in a trap. Neither of them wanted anybody else to get hurt, and refused to put them into the line of fire.

“So. Are you…alright?” Sherlock didn’t particularly enjoy broaching personal conversations, but it felt called for.

“Sorry what?”

“Are you alright? Mary being back and everything.”

“Oh. Yea. Yea, we’re fine. It was kind of my sister to put us both up. I think it’ll help us ease back into it better.  So, you know who we’re tracking then?”

“Yes. One of Magnussen’s lot, as I predicted. I think they’re just playing with us now.”

“And what are we going to do?”

“Stop them. Lestrade will track us so if we need to, we can call on him at any time. We find out where they’re hiding, and then we let the police take care of it.”

John cocked an eyebrow, “Let the police take care of it?”

“Yes. I don’t think Mary would forgive me if I sent her husband home with a hole in him. I don’t think your sister would, either.”

John didn’t believe him in the slightest. Sherlock was planning something, he always was, but for now he would play along. He was still somewhat basking in the glow of having his wife and child back, and he was eager to catch up on lost time, but he didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone. Sensing this, Sherlock waved him out of the room.

“Go and see your wife. I can’t concentrate over the sound of you thinking about her.”

“But…” John quickly grabbed his coat as he was being herded out.

“Goodbye John. I will inform you of any further developments.”

When John had gone, Sherlock stared at the closed door for a while. He looked around his empty flat, and tried to pretend it didn’t bother him. He knew it was selfish, but he’d quite enjoyed having John to himself again for a while. He had been lonely without him. Although Mycroft had been actually reasonable at coming around and keeping him company, it wasn’t quite the same. Now his best friend had his family back, he wasn’t sure where he fit in. The thought was utterly depressing.

===

If Baker Street was empty, Battersea most certainly was not. After a few hours nap on the sofa and Harry felt fairly human again. Her arm was just painful. She’d taken it out of the sling because it was so impractical. But she hardly had time to notice, she had Mary at her heels every step of the way. It was pretty useful, but still frustrating at the same time. She was a largely independent woman, and she knew her sister-in-law meant well, but she hated not being in control.

“So…how’s…things?” broached Mary as they were sitting at the kitchen table again.

Harry instantly knew it was code for her wanting to talk about John. She could tell it had been occupying her mind the whole time, but she hadn’t wanted to bring it up, considering the woman had just been shot to get a sniper off her tail.

“Sore, but alright. Alive at least. Now, what’s really troubling you?”

“I…uhm. I…don’t know where to start. God, I’m pathetic. I don’t really want to moan your ear off again.”

“It’s ok, I’ve got used to it,” Harry gave her a cheeky grin, “Besides. Considering I can’t take any painkillers because of my other meds, it’ll be a welcome distraction.”

Harry had let Mary have a little more insight to her life than others. She knew what she was on, and what she can and couldn’t do. It’d been nice for Harry to actually confide in somebody, and she was more than happy to offer the same kind of help. She knew it was probably about her brother, and wasn’t sure how much insight she could offer, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

“OK. Fine. I just…need your help with John?”

Harry looked flabbergasted, “You need help with _John_? I got trapped in my room with the Holmes brothers last time you two saw each other. I think you’re fine.”

Mary actually looked a little embarrassed, and cleared her throat, “Yes. Well. Adrenalin. But the thing is…we didn’t really talk. Not about anything in particular. Not about the…things that matter.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, “John isn’t too good at expressing emotions. We both know this.”

“I know, I know. But it was…different. I don’t think…” she hesitated,

“You don’t think what?”

“I don’t think he’s forgiven me. For any of it. Not properly.”

“He basically just moved into my flat to be with you.”

“I know. But there’s just something. I can tell. I did lie to him, a lot…and then I left. And…I don’t know.”

Mary had her there. If there was one thing John didn’t deal well with, it was being lied to. It suddenly struck her that she had been quite blind. Yes they had that heart to heart when he had been taking care of her after the shooting, and some things he had been bottling up started to come to the surface. But that was, metaphorically speaking, the tip of the iceberg. He had been apologising to Harry, he hadn’t been thinking about himself half as much as he should have. Mary had seen something that she had not. The more she thought about it, the more she realised just how damaged her brother was. He never did like disappointing people. It was one of the reasons she had taken so many beatings for him as a child. She patted Mary’s hand.

“I can’t promise anything. But I can at least talk to him.”

It was at that moment that John came into the flat. Harry had already given him the spare key. The two women briefly exchanged a knowing look, before acting casually. They both greeted him as he came in, and Mary gave Harry a nudge under the table that signalled she would make herself scarce if Harry could find a reason to intercept John.

“John, just the man I was hoping for,” Harry said brightly,

“Oh yes? Everything alright?” replied her little brother suspiciously.

“Kind of. I was just wondering if you could help me with my shoulder,” she smiled, “I need to change the dressing, and as I’m left handed and not a contortionist, and you’re a doctor, I was just wondering…”

“Oh! Right, of course. I’d be happy to. Well, not happy, but, you know. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Yea, in the bathroom.”

The pair of them headed through, with Mary briefly mouthing a thank you to Harry over John’s shoulder. The older Watson parked herself on the edge of the bath, pointing at the cupboard under the sink. It was a peculiar reversal of roles compared to when they had been children. Harriet sat patiently and held out her arm, gritting her teeth to stop wincing as her brother unwrapped it.  


	11. Eleven

“I really think you should get it stitched Harry,” commented John as he inspected it.

“Well, can you stitch it then? You know I don’t like hospitals.”

John sighed, remembering. She really never had. The last time she’d voluntarily gone in was when their parents died. The other times had, not been pleasant experiences. He left her for a moment, and she stared at herself in the mirror. She was wondering how it had come to this. For a while she’d been enjoying a nice, quiet life. Then Mary and Mycroft came in to it, and they brought along John, Sherlock and the others too. She’d never had more people she really cared about than she could count on one hand. Not even when she was younger. John was obviously top of the list, but Mary and the baby were a hair’s breadth away. She’d even quite warmed to Mycroft, who understood what it was like to have a little brother always running in to danger. Not to mention Sherlock himself, who she realised she had a lot in common with. He had saved John, brought him back to reality. In turn she felt a sense of responsibility and attachment to everyone else who cared for them as well. They’d looked after her little brother when she couldn’t. It was these thoughts she was lost in when John returned with a small medical pack he kept on him.

“Harry…are you alright? What is it?”

She hadn’t realised until then that she was crying. She had zoned out of her own face in the mirror, and hadn’t felt the tears rolling down her cheeks. She hadn’t done that in…she couldn’t even remember the last time she properly cried. It was as if some kind of corked had been popped in her brain, and everything she had been bottling up for her entire life came flooding out. Concerned for both his sister and her privacy, John kicked the door shut and wrapped his arms around her. She sobbed into his chest, clinging to his shirt. Seeing her like that was the scariest thing John had ever witnessed, and he’d been at war.

“Harry, come on, talk to me,” he coaxed gently.

“I’m sorry John. I’m being utterly pathetic, aren’t I?” sniffed his big sister.

“No, you’re really not. You’re the strongest person I have ever met.”

Harry shook her head, “No, I’m not. I ran away and left you when you needed me most. You were twelve, John! I abandoned you, a little boy, and chose some evil people instead. The things they, we, did, JJ. I knew it was wrong, but I just couldn’t leave. Then there was the drinking, and the way I treated Clara. I let everything free fall. I destroyed everything around me. I missed your _wedding._ You should be ashamed of me, little brother.  I deserved that bullet in the chest. I’m so, so sorry.”

“No! Don’t you ever say that!” shouted John, “Don’t you dare.”

It had been so long that he had held his sister that close. The cami top she was wearing was so thin and she seemed so fragile. His heart sunk as he felt the familiar raises and patterns  of scar tissue. He could feel cuts criss-crossing her back, he saw on her bruised hand a faded collection of round burn marks. He saw in her eyes the horror of what those people had put her through.

His voice shook slightly as he spoke to her, and he kept it low so it didn’t crack. “How many of those scars did you get because of me?”

Harry looked up, “What?”

“I forgot for a really long time Harry. All I thought about was how angry I was. Angry mum and dad died. Angry you left me. Angry at life. I joined the army, so I could take my anger out on other people. But it didn’t work. I got shot, and that just made me angrier. Then I suddenly remembered. I remembered all those times you stuck up for me. You got belted, bruised, burned, by our _father_. You never said a word about it. You never let it show, you carried on, and I was so concerned about myself that I didn’t see what you had done for me.”

He momentarily let go of his sister, and she wondered what he was doing. He unbuttoned his shirt, and let it drop to one side. Harry’s eyes widened as she saw a large, white star-shaped scar, just above his heart. She clapped her hands over her mouth. She had never seen his scar before.  In the reflection of the mirror behind him, she saw a similar mark, all across his shoulder blade.

“Oh, god. JJ…” she reached out, gently tracing her finger tips over the raised and twisted skin. The scars in themselves weren’t much smaller than her whole fist.

John was incredibly self-conscious about his scar, but once his point was made, he put his shirt back on. Harry reached forward and took his hands, realising that he had just shared with her one of the most intimate things he could.

“That’s _when_ I remembered. Do you know what kept me alive, even though I was bleeding out? Even though I shouldn’t be standing here today?” Harry shook her head, “You.” Harry wiped her eyes, startled, “I swore to myself, that I would get out of there. I would go home, I would find you, and I would thank you. I would thank you for every kick, every punch, every scar, physical and mental, that you had taken, so I didn’t have to. You were four when I was born. You were a baby yourself, and you took all this on.” He paused, trying to regain his composure, “So don’t you dare say you wish you were dead. And don’t you ever dare think I would be better without you. You said to me that I didn’t deserve what happened to me. You said that I should ‘stop kicking the crap out of your own psyche’ and now I’m saying that to you. _I_ would be dead without _you_.”

As the realisation hit, Harry pulled her brother in close again, and he rested his chin on her shoulder, letting himself be vulnerable for a while, “So…you forgive me?” asked Harry quietly.

“Of course I do. Do you forgive me?” Harry nodded. Both of them felt like a suffocating weight had been lifted off them. “And Harry?”

“Yes JJ?”

“I know you want me to forgive Mary, that’s why you really called me in here. And I will, just…give me time.” He smiled and reluctantly let her go again, “Now, let me stitch that.”

Obediently, Harry held her arm out to John, with the biggest smile on her face, and completely oblivious to any pain. John caught this look in the mirror, and smiled slightly to himself too.


	12. Twelve

It was a couple of months after the big reveal in the bathroom that found John, Harry and Mary quite contentedly sitting in the living room, doing their own little thing, but happy to be in company. Harry had allowed them to officially move in whilst they were looking for a place of their own, a new home for a fresh start. Their old place had held too many painful memories, and since moving to Battersea everything had hugely improved. They were all much happier, and much more together. Yes they still had a threat hanging over them, but they knew none of them would let another be hurt. They received frequent visitors from Sherlock, Lestrade and even Mrs Hudson. One of the most surprisingly frequent visitors however, was Mycroft. He had most definitely designated Harriet his ‘goldfish’ and he often came round to join them for a cup of tea, and occasionally even meals. Sherlock had teased him relentlessly, until John pointed out that Sherlock had done exactly the same thing, just with John. It was him who Harry let up that afternoon.

“Hello Mike,” Harry smiled, “I just put the kettle on.”

“Thank you.” He had resigned to his nickname, but only from Harry, nobody else. He gave John and Mary a friendly nod, “Good afternoon Dr Watson, Mrs Watson. How are you all?”

“Good thank you, Mycroft,” John responded.

“As long as I don’t move too much, I’m good.” Mary grinned, patting her huge bump.

“Glad to hear it.”

Mycroft perched on the sofa near where Harry had been sitting, and she handed him over a cup of tea, “I read that book you recommended, by the way.”

“Yes? Did you find it useful?”

“Oh! It was brilliant. I especially liked that bit near the end,”

They were lost to their conversation for a good while after that. John was astounded to see Mycroft so reasonable and interesting in something and it was nice to see Harry so engaged in the conversation of a relatively new friend. Nothing really moved or disturbed any of them, until John’s phone went off as he received a text.

The game is on - SH

John immediately shot to his feet, startling both Mary and Harry, but Mycroft merely looked up. He knew full well what the message was about. He had just come from seeing his younger brother. He went over and kissed Mary on the forehead, “I have to go. I’ll be back soon.”

“John?! Mary was confused, “Where are you going?”

“My brother has asked for his assistance in a personal matter, Mrs Watson. I am sure you understand?”

“Oh! Right, go on, be careful,” Mary pushed herself up to give her husband a hug and a kiss, “Be careful, alright?”

“I will be. Look after her, ok Harry?” Harry nodded as John hugged her, before disappearing out of the door with one final look behind, “See you tonight at dinner.”

The three left watched him close the door, and Mycroft stood, walking over to it, “I can get us a car, it’ll be faster. Thank you for the tea Harriet. I suggest you find your car keys, by the way.”

Harry looked puzzled, “Um, why?”

Mycroft glanced over at Mary, “Because your sister-in-law has been in labour for approximately two hours, and will need a lift. Good day.”

Harry looked flabbergasted at Mary, “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“Because it wasn’t too bad…”

“Jesus, Mary,” she spluttered with laughter when she realised what she had just said, “Let’s go little sister, we’ve got work to do.”

Mary’s eyes filled and she smiled as the older woman grabbed her hospital bag from the cupboard. Harry had never called her little sister before, and it made her overwhelmingly happy. That was until a contraction started, and she doubled up. Harry was there in a second, and squeezed her hand, as she ushered her out of the flat and to her car.

===

Mycroft was fully aware of what was going on, but neglected to mention anything to John at that point, because he knew John would feel torn. He fully expected all of this to be over in enough time for him to join his wife at the hospital. But for the time being, she was in very capable hands. He had briefly filled John in on the plan in the car. They had found the place where Magnussen had made his base, and estimated how many people were there. The idea was for Sherlock to go in and keep them talking whilst the police arrived, with John watching his back. It had happened many times before, and he trusted Sherlock’s skills enough to know he wouldn’t disappoint. They picked up Sherlock on the way. John could tell he was impatient and agitated. His collar was turned up, so he knew they meant business.

“Remember the steps, Sherlock,” warned Mycroft, “They’ll probably guess you’re trying to buy time, but every second is precious. You have your gun I presume Dr Watson? In case things get a little…hairy?”

“Yes. I do.”

Sherlock was glad to have his friend beside him, but he was less pleased at the fact that he had left behind a heavily pregnant wife to come and support him. At least she had people around to look after her. The car stopped a little way out of the city, on an industrial estate. This was where Mycroft would leave them, and they were quietly make their own way in. The older Holmes wished them luck, and retreated. When the signal was given, he would set things in motion. John and Sherlock stood alone I a derelict street, the two of them, just like old times.

“So, what’s the plan?” whispered John.

“We go in, and talk. And hopefully, avoid getting shot.”

“Right.”

The face Sherlock made when John’s phone suddenly started ringing was one of disbelief and horror. John had completely forgotten he had it on him. As quickly as he could he picked it up, and it was Harriet on the other end. Sherlock rolled his eyes, until he saw the look on John’s face.

“What?! Right now?”

John looked at his friend, who realised that that phone call was probably the most important one he was ever going to get. He had recognised the ringtone used for Harriet, and realised that at that moment, Mary Watson was having a baby. His heart sunk. He couldn’t let John come in with him, not now.

“Go, John. Your wife needs you.”

For once, John didn’t want to argue. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, “Do not go in there alone. Take Mycroft, or Lestrade, or somebody? Alright. No dying.”

Sherlock gave a slight smile and nodded. He watched his friend run back towards Mycroft’s car, and started working out what he could do.

===

Back at the hospital, things were incredibly tense. Harry hated hospitals, and Mary was having a baby. The younger woman was curled up on her side, sweating profusely and clinging for dear life to Harry’s hand. The older woman had sat down to be on the same level as her sister, and was holding her hand and stroking her hair. She wiped away any tears, and she could feel her own heart beating so hard she was worried it might burst. Every now and then she stroked her back, trying her hardest to calm her.

“John’ll be here any minute, alright? I just called him.” She kissed the woman’s forehead, and braced herself as her hand was crushed again.

It was surreal for Harriet to be right there in the middle of one of the most private parts of a person’s life. She had often shied away from compassion and intimacy, one of the many reasons her marriage fell apart. She was uncomfortable with affection, but it had come to easy to her ever since Mary had turned up in her flat. Whatever maternal instincts she had had when she was looking after her brother growing up had reawakened at the sight of her. For her part, she was remaining surprisingly calm, though she did have a tendency to wince when a doctor or nurse came in. She was worried that any one of them might recognise her, and she wanted to avoid that embarrassment.

“I’m so lucky I’ve got you,” Mary smiled.

“Nonsense. You’ll get sick of me spoiling your baby rotten before long,” Harry winked.

A little while later, John practically fell into the room, out of breath and stark white. As he tried to comprehend the situation in front of him, he felt like he was suffocating. Noting his sheer panic, Harry waved him over, and passed him Mary’s hand, moving out of the way and putting an arm around him. He looked like a frightened little boy, and it made Mary giggle despite the pain.

“Everything ok with Sherlock?” Mary questioned.

“Yea. He’ll be fine,” John smiled, but there was a hint of doubt in his voice, but Mary was too preoccupied to notice.

Harry decided to leave them to it for now, and as she was walking out of the door, John hugged her. Discreetly, so Mary didn’t see, she grabbed the gun from his pocket and hid it in her own jacket. John gave her a look that said “don’t you dare” but Harry just kissed his cheek.

“I’ll let you two get on. I’ll be back soon, ok?” before John could blow her cover, she all but ran out.

“Harry!” John called after her, but it was no use. Mary seemed to know something was wrong, and held her hand out to him. After a moment, he relented, and took it, taking up the perch which had until then been Harry’s.

 

 

 


	13. Thirteen

Sherlock had completely disregarded John’s request. The warehouse was such a big building, he thought he should check the coast was clear, and work out the best entrances and escape routes, so of course he had gone in alone. He had to prove himself that he could do this alone. He wouldn’t have John when the baby came, he would be too busy. He had worked alone before John came along, he just needed to remember how to do it. He knew he was in dangerous territory, but he didn’t care. It was a fixed point in his mind. He had found where they were, and he would bring them down. He had no doubt they already knew he was on their trail. But their vanity prevented them from fleeing. His heart started racing as he heard the familiar click of a gun. He turned the corner and saw a tall, heavy set man pointing a gun at him. He grinned a grin that was missing teeth. A hot flash whizzed past Sherlock’s ear, and the man crumpled with a bullet hole in his heart. He turned around.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Hello to you too, you idiot!” hissed Harriet, coming around the corner with a silenced gun. She pushed him angrily against the wall, out of sight of anyone else coming their way and he was surprised by how strong she was. “I knew it. I knew you’d go in without back up. Mycroft didn’t even know John was gone. Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?”

So much for proving he could do this alone. Although he had to admit a huge sense of relief that he had somebody with him, he was dismayed that it was Harriet. She was quite obviously a fine shot, as he already knew, and she was a very good person to have by your side. But as far as Sherlock was concerned, she should have been with the other Watsons.

“Do you know what that would do to our family?” Finishing her rant, Harry let Sherlock go and he straightened his scarf, “So. What’s the plan? Recon?”

“More or less,” Sherlock shrugged, “I have Lestrade on standby with his forces.”

“You still shouldn’t have come in by yourself.”

“It’s a simple enough mission. I doubt Magnussen would kill me immediately. He’s far too dangerous for that. He would want to talk first.”

“Whatever. Come on. We should find the bastard and let Lestrade know.”

She motioned in front of her, for Sherlock to take the lead. He was like another little brother to her, and Sherlock felt as responsible for her as he did John. They lost track of how long they checked and rechecked corners and rooms, making sure nobody that came to help them would be taken out prematurely. Something struck Sherlock as very wrong about the atmosphere however. Magnussen was a man of knowledge and power. He had imagined his base to be much classier. It was more or less deserted. Apart from that one scout, they didn’t come across anyone. They were obviously being watched, but nothing had happened yet. Sherlock heard a sound coming from the room to their right, and instinctively covered Harry, pulling her behind him. Something was wrong. He had realised it too late. From the door came a very distinctive voice.

“Mr Holmes. Glad you could make it. Do come in.”

Sherlock’s blood ran cold and he subconsciously gripped Harriet’s arm tightly. She looked down at his clenched hand on her wrist, and her heart felt like it was in her mouth. She thought she recognised the voice…but it was impossible, wasn’t it? The accent was Irish. Gingerly, Sherlock remembered to let go over Harriet, and pushed open the door. The two of them were suddenly blinded by a spotlight which followed them as they edged forwards. They were pushed by two men in dark suits towards the centre of the room. As they looked up, several pinpoints of light were aimed at them, and then Sherlock came face to face, with James Moriarty.

“Did you like my little triple bluff there, Sherlock?” Jim laughed, “Though I can’t say I approve of Magnussen’s methods, or furnishings, I did have fun arranging this.”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Sherlock responded, finding his voice.

“So are you! Funny how things happen, isn’t it? Ms Watson, you I wasn’t expecting I have to admit. But hello, pleased to meet you.”

Harry remained silent. Sherlock had no idea how to get out of this one. He could try calling for Lestrade, but that would cut both his and Harriet’s lives short, very quickly. All he could think about trying to do was work out how to distract everyone, so she could get away, but he was so astounded by seeing the man in front of him, he had no idea what to do. For now, all he could do was whatever Moriarty told him to. He was kicking himself for ignoring the signs. The one lone scout to draw out anyone that might be supporting him. The barrenness of the warehouse, and the ease of finding their way through. He was trapped in a corner, and he had trapped Harriet Watson with him too. To add insult to injury, they snatched her gun away from her, leaving them both defenceless.


	14. Fourteen

Powerless  was not a good feeling. They had worked so hard to get here. To track them down, to follow them to the heart of their schemes, and it had gone wrong. But how could you predict that the man you were truly after, was actually the person you thought was dead? Sherlock glanced towards Harry who was standing by his side. It wasn’t the Watson he was used to seeing in these situations, but he was secretly glad she was there all the same. Especially when between them they had sixteen laser sights on them. He could practically hear her heart pounding in his own mind, and felt guilty for dragging her into this. As if sensing his thoughts, she shook her head as a sign to not let that drive him.

“We’re in this together,” she whispered to him. “I chose to come.”

“Well. Isn’t this a merry party,” both of their skins crawled at the voice of Jim Moriarty. “You were so convincing up on that roof Sherlock. I see you’ve broadened your puppy dog horizons. Watson Sr. Bet you wish you’d never met him.”

“But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company, Jim,” replied Harry evenly.

Moriarty laughed, “Ooh. I like you. You should’ve found this one first.”

“I must admit I’m impressed. Not everyone could shoot themselves in the head and then swan back in to town. So how did you do it?”

“Oh, there’s plenty of time for that Sherly baby,” drawled Moriarty. “But for now I’ve only one thing to say to you.”

“Delightful. What might that be?”

“Do you want to live, or do you want to die?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“Not this time. Live or die?”

“Well I’m in no hurry to die, again.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Moriarty immediately turned his attention away from Sherlock. He had thought of a much more fun game to play. Instead, his focus and the spotlight fell on Harry. She was alarmed, but kept her cool, wondering what was going on. Every laser sight disappeared from her, and ended up pointing at Sherlock. She immediately looked at him, hoping for some sign of what she was meant to do. He didn’t know either, but it was never going to be anything good.

“Sherlock Holmes. Do you trust Harriet Watson, to save your life?”

Sherlock paused for a moment, taking a long hard look at Harry. She had been such an enigma for years. He knew nothing about her, and all he found out from John seemed to have been negative. Then, out of nowhere, she had become a close friend and ally. They were united in their love for John, and the hate for anyone in the world who abused their power and hurt other people. Turning to Moriarty, he nodded.

“Yes.”

“Lovely! Now. Harriet Watson. Will you do whatever it takes, to save Sherlock Holmes’ life?”

The woman took a deep breath, a million thoughts running through her mind. But she already knew the answer. “Yes.”

Moriarty gave an evil grin. Out of nowhere some of his cronies placed a small table in the middle of the floor where he looked down, as if on to a stage. Two chairs were set either side of it, and Sherlock and Harriet were manhandled into opposing seats. Sherlock was strapped down, and the red points of light were aimed at every major vein and artery. His blue eyes stared at the woman whose hands his life was in, and she read fear and anger in equal measure. She was still hands free, but she knew if she tried anything, any one of those shots would kill him. She did her best to reassure him with a look, or a slight motion, and barely let her own eyes look away from him.

“What’s your game Moriarty?” questioned Sherlock calmly.

There was no response other than insane laughter. One of their captors suddenly placed a shot glass in front of Harry. It was filled with bright green liquid. The reek of aniseed assaulted their nostrils, and both parties suddenly felt quite ill. All the colour trained from Harry’s face, and she clutched the sides of her chair.

“Awh, Harriet. You disappoint me. Where’s all that delightful sass?”

“Sonofabitch,” cursed Harriet, her eyes gazing down at the drink in front of her.

Sherlock felt sick. Even for Moriarty, this was low. He recognised the hunger and pain in his companion’s eyes. He saw her hands trembling as her knuckles turned white. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead and her eyes were watering. Her breath was shallow, and she looked pleadingly at the man who was supposed to know what to do.

“Now, now Harriet. You promised,” gloated Moriarty.

“Just what does this achieve, Jim?” Harry’s voice caught in her throat.

“Oh. It’s nothing personal love. I just want front row seats when Sherlock tells John that he’s the one who ruined his new saviour’s life all over again. I’m looking forward to the critic’s reviews.”

“Harriet. Listen. You don’t have to do this,” coaxed Sherlock. He didn’t want to die, that was true, but what Moriarty had just described, that was worse than death.

“Yes. I do.”

Moving quickly, like taking a plaster off to reduce the pain, Harry’s hand shot forward to the tiny glass, and she downed the drink in one. Her throat burned and her stomach churned, and tears rolled down her cheeks as the hardest thing she had had to do in her life, was taken away from her. As soon as she brought the shot glass down with a slam on the table, one of the red lights pointed at Sherlock, disappeared.

“You really would do anything for your brother, wouldn’t you?” There seemed to be some kind of sincerity, or perhaps even respect in their captor’s voice. “Even throw your own life away. I’m touched.”

He clicked his fingers, and the same man who had given Harry the first drink, place in front of her a small round tray. On it were fifteen shot glasses filled with the same green liquor. Sherlock strained against the leather cutting into his wrists, desperately trying to get free. But Harry shook her head. Her eyes had lost their life and spark.

“Sherlock. Don’t. Look away, if you must.”

But he couldn’t. He was the reason she was here. He was always the reason. He dragged the people he cared about most in to life or death situations. They would try to rebuild, try to escape. They would make things better for themselves. Then he would grasp at them and pull them down again. He always knew, in the back of his mind. But now he was physically seeing the effect he had on them. With a deep breathe, Harry grabbed another shot, and threw it back. One more target on Sherlock’s body was removed.

One, then another, then another. Harriet felt sick, and threw up in her mouth at least twice. Her head was spinning and her ears were ringing. The only thing she could focus on was the man across the table from her, as gradually, the threats to his life were discarded. Sherlock saw the change come over her. The dead eyes, the slumped posture. Her skin looked grey and her hair clung to her as the sweat rolled down her face. She was gradually becoming the picture that he had built up in his mind after John’s stories and recollections. Before he had met her. It was painful to watch, but he forced himself to carry on. Her pace had slowed, and she was struggling through. She finished the last one, and slumped forward onto the table, her head and face covered by her folded arms.

 Satisfied, Moriarty clicked his fingers once more. Sherlock was released from his bounds, and he leapt across to check on Harry. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her up. She was floppy, like a rag doll, and she was quiet and disorientated. For a while her eyes tried to take in her surroundings. Eventually, her eyes settled on Sherlock, and she gave the faintest hint of a smile.

“If you could take me to get my stomach pumped, I’d be grateful,” she slurred quietly.

“I’m impressed,” Moriarty had dismissed his cronies, and was leaning over the bar looking at them, “Where do you find these Watsons Mr Holmes? I could use one myself.”

Sherlock helped Harry to her feet, carrying most of her weight as he held her arm around his neck. He looked up at Moriarty, pure venom and hatred in his eyes. “You won’t be around long enough to get one,” he warned.

“Where have I heard that one before?” Moriarty laughed, “It never gets old. But you’re never going to stop me. You let your guard down, and it’s made you weak. You took on these people as ‘friends’ and opened a dozen chinks in your armour. And for what? To feel ‘alive’? To desperately be ‘accepted’ by a world that’s taunted and scorned and tortured you your whole life. Why do you want to be one of them?”

His rant was cut short as there was a loud bang and a sharp crack. Harry, still holding on to Sherlock for support, had withdrawn the gun from inside his pocket, without him realising, and fired it. Moriarty looked almost as stunned as Sherlock himself, as a bright bloom of red spread across his lower abdomen. Not even Moriarty had expected that, and his plans fell apart in that second.

“That’s why.” Harry’s voice was slurred still, but the words were clear enough to interpret, “Sherlock isn’t one of you, Jim. He’s one of us, and you need to accept that.” Moriarty seemed to fall to his knees in slow motion, clutching his gut. “Let me give _you_ some advice,” She was just about managing to stand on her own two feet, but was clutching Sherlock’s hand for support. “Never underestimate the anger of a Watson.”

Moriarty was swiftly tended by a couple of remaining henchmen, who grabbed him and carried him out of the warehouse, leaving just the alternative Holmes and Watson to their own company.

“You’re a better shot than I thought,” complimented the consulting detective, not sure what else to say.

“I was aiming for his head.” responded his friend. She was trying to be light hearted, but she felt like she was on fire. Feeling the effects of being poisoned did wonders for sobering one up. She was violently nauseous and burning up, and her kidneys were crying out in pain. “Listen, Sherlock. Pretty sure I’m dying right now. But it’s ok. I know you’ll look after the family for me. Just, try not to get yourself killed, ok?”

Sherlock caught her as she fell, and picked her up in his arms. He ran out of the warehouse when he heard sirens and flashing blue lights came in through the door. His heart hurt, and he felt sick. He was almost 100% certain he had just inadvertently killed his best friend’s sister. 


	15. Fifteen

Harriet didn’t know where she was. She knew she was dreaming, or some such. She was sat on a swing chair in the afternoon sun of a little garden. She recognised it as being her grandmother’s from when she was a child. She half expected the old woman to come out with her usual lemonade and hula hoops, or her mother to bring out the baby to enjoy some sunshine for a while, but there were no other signs of life. There were birds, and the leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. But she couldn’t hear the neighbour’s dog, or the trains going over the bridge. She looked down at her hands and realised all the burns and scars were gone. The streak left by the bullet was gone too. She rapidly felt behind her, and realised the scars on her back were erased as well. She had no idea what was going on, but she felt very warm and very calm. It was quite a nice feeling. The back door suddenly opened, and Mycroft Holmes walked down the steps. She offered him a smile and a wave, but he didn’t seem to notice her. He sat next to her on the swing chair, and stayed quiet for a long time.

“Well. You’ve certainly done a good job of being a bodyguard,” he commented lightly, “Sorry I sprung it on you so clumsily. I’d be glad I had, knowing that you even went so far as protecting my own brother, if only it hadn’t led to you being here. You’re a very remarkable woman, Harriet Watson. I once said to my brother that I find the whole world rather dull. But not you. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt comfortable enough around somebody to just call in for a cup of tea. I suppose I should thank you for that really. The tea here is terrible. I much prefer yours.”

He got up, and walked back up the stairs. She tried to call out to him, but found she had no voice. It was frightening. She could move around freely, and she was enjoying the warmth of a bright day, but she couldn’t say anything. A little while after Mycroft had left, Harry realised she was now sitting in starlight, and Sherlock broached the steps. The same pattern followed. He sat down next to her, but he couldn’t see or hear her. He just spoke.

“They managed to dismantle Moriarty’s game again. They lost his thread, but I don’t think he’s going to be back again for a while. So we can all breathe, I suppose. Look, what you said in there. That I was one of you. I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t think I’m quite worthy of it. I’m the reason you’re here, after all. I don’t think John’s going to talk to me for a while. Mycroft is angry too. I’m amazed you actually managed to befriend my brother. I hurt a lot of people, a lot of the time, don’t I? If you could manage to maybe, forgive me, and come back. I know we don’t know one another very well. But right now, you’re all I’ve got. I don’t blame the others. It was foolish of me to go in alone. But anyway. Just wait until you meet your niece. She’s very keen to visit Auntie Harry.”

He walked off into the night, through the back gate instead of the door, and this time Harry didn’t try to go after him. She knew she couldn’t. She was stuck here for now. She blinked and now realised she was watching the sky turn from black to pink as the sun rose. Her next visitor was Mary. She looked tired and tear-stained, and spoke quietly, as if trying to stop anybody else hearing her. She sat down and took Harry’s hand.

“Hello Harry. It’s me again. Still in bed are you? Lazy. I left the baby with John for now. The pair of them are still fast asleep. I thought I’d get in some us time. I’ve got some pictures to show you. John is such a wonderful dad. He found Alfred and washed him up, and now she won’t sleep without him.  I’m so lucky to have them.  I don’t know what you said to John in that bathroom, but I think he’s forgiven me. Actually forgiven me. It feels right again. Well, most things do,” she squeezed Harry’s hand, “I heard about what happened. I guess selflessness runs in the family. I’m so glad you’re part of mine. I spent so many years lonely and in danger. But as soon as you let me into your home, I felt human again. Like I mattered.” She kissed the hand that she was holding, “Won’t you please come back and be part of our lives again?”

As Mary left, Harry wiped tears away. She was dead, wasn’t she? She had to be. She was a ghost, or some such. That would explain why everyone was talking to her. But she couldn’t talk back, and she couldn’t be seen. She must have died in that warehouse.  The sun was higher in the sky as John appeared to her. He looked exhausted, and Harry had to allow herself a small smile at the bib that was sticking out of his pocket and the dummy that was tucked in his shirt pocket.

“You are not allowed to laugh at me. I’ve never had a baby before, and I have no idea what I’m doing. If you could give me any pointers I’d appreciate it. Especially pointers on how to get by on less than four hours sleep a night?” he sighed, “I think you should share some of your hours. It’s been far too long and the rest of us need to sleep,” Harry was giggling at this point, “Did Mary tell you? I found Alfred, and the baby will not let him out of her sight. She looks just like you, you know. From the old pictures mum used to show me. She has her mother’s eyes though. Listen, Harry. This is really hard. I love being a dad, and I love my daughter. But I could really use your help. You raised me, after all. You’re the only example I’ve got to go on. Please?” Harry couldn’t respond, and John sighed. He kissed her forehead, and disappeared through the door.

Harry was now watching the sun set over the bridge, which was a black silhouette in front of the yellow and oranges. As she saw the first star creep into the night, she didn’t notice her next visitor. At least until she clambered up on to the swing chair, and then promptly sat on Harry’s lap. Startled, Harry looked at the girl, she was maybe three or four and she seemed to be the only one that could see her. She had masses of curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She had no idea who the child was, until she spoke.

“Come on Auntie Harry! Mummy promised you’d show me how to do those pretty plaits and keep "all this" under control, and I need your help making Daddy’s birthday present. I’m fed up of waiting, it’s time to get started.”

With that, the child clambered off her lap, and grabbed Harriet's hand, dragging her aunt behind her, up the stairs and through the door.

===

When she opened her eyes, she was aware of something warm on her hand. The sounds rushed back to her, and her eyes shied at the sudden light. Utterly confused, she looked down and found herself staring into the two big blue eyes of a very small, very pink baby, that was tightly gripping her finger. Adjusting to her surroundings, she could hear ringing phones, beeping machines, and a constant murmur of voices. The baby was smiling, and as she saw Harry stir, she gave a giggle. The giggle drew the attention of her father, who sat bolt upright in the chair he had been fast asleep on, in turn disturbing the mother, who had been leaning on his shoulder in another chair.

“What! What is it? Harry? Oh god, Harry!” John shot to his feet, the baby still in his arms. She shrieked with delight as she flew into the air. “Nurse! Nurse!”

Harriet was vaguely aware of various nurses and doctors shining lights in her eyes, and squeezing her hands and feet, but the whole time, she couldn’t stop looking at the baby that John was holding, and the baby couldn’t stop looking at her. When the doctor had decided she was alright and had given them enough room, Harry was suddenly passed the little girl, and her brother sat on one side of the bed next to her, with her sister-in-law on the other. The pair wrapped their arms around Harry and the baby, flooded with relief.

“How long have I been out?” Harry was surprised at the sound of her own voice, even though it was raspy. She remembered not being able to speak.

“Nearly three months,” answered John, “It’s about bloody time you woke up. We’ve been run ragged with this little madam. We could really use an extra pair of hands.”

“John!” Mary scolded,

Harry was breathily chuckling anyway. “You only want me for my live-in-nanny skills,” 

In answer, Mary wrapped her arms around her and hugged her even closer. Harry smiled down at the little girl, and gently booped her nose. The baby made a face and then gave a gummy grin.

“So. You have a girl then. What’s her name?”

Both Dr and Mrs Watson looked at each other, and looked, if anything, a little embarrassed. Harry frowned, and then John cleared his throat.

“Um, Hattie…” he explained, “It’s short for…Harriet Molly. She’s called Harriet Molly Watson.”

Harry’s mouth gaped and her eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t quite believe they had named their daughter after her. At her reaction, both parents gave a sigh of relief. They had been worried she wouldn’t like it, but they couldn’t have given her a better name. She was named for her aunt who had saved everyone around her, and if she grew up to be even a bit like Harry, they would be pleased.

“There’s…something else,” added Mary, “We wondered if you might consider…being her godmother?”

Harry grinned, “I would be honoured. On one condition.”

“Name it!” said John hurriedly, he was desperate for her to accept.

“You need to make Sherlock her godfather. There is nobody outside of the three of us, that will love or protect this little girl more than he will. I can remember all of you talking to me you know. What happened wasn’t his fault, and if I’m right in assuming the whole time you’ve refused to see him, then you need to let him in again.” She reached up and took John’s hand. “Don’t leave it thirty years.”


	16. Epilogue

The sun was streaming through the stained-glass windows, throwing tiny little rainbows on to the floor. The church was old but you could tell it was well loved. There were seven people standing around an intricately carved stone font. The proud parents were directly in front of the priest, holding a baby with already curling blonde hair in a beautiful white gown, that had been sewn by the older woman. A taller, grey-haired man had a calming arm around her shoulders as she gently sobbed with happiness. A little apart from them, a slim man with a black umbrella stood quietly, observing but seemingly content.  Right next to the parents were a dark-haired man who looked uncomfortable but proud and a curly-haired woman, who was grinning from ear to ear. She linked arms with her counterpart and he seemed to relax. As the priest looked around at each of the adults, he smiled to himself, and looked at the baby who was currently mesmerised by her own reflection.

_“What a lucky girl you are,” he thought to himself. ”You’re going to be very well cared for.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. Thank you for reading my little story, I hope you liked it. I realise it may not be your typical Sherlock fan fiction, less crime and deduction and more a character study of Harry Watson. I decided when writing this that she would be the main character, and I wanted to try and present how I think she could be portrayed. I started writing this before the end of Series 3, so I suppose it's a sort of AU where Molly died (which was really hard, I love her as a character) and Magnussen survived. Feel free to leave any feed back. I'm sure there are a few things that can be changed and polished, and I'll get round to them. For now, I've just written over forty pages, and really need a cup of tea!


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